


Dancing in Graveyards: An Arkadia Anthology

by justbecauseyoubelievesomething



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Small Town, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Christmas Lights, Christmas Party, Exes to Lovers, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Healing, M/M, Small Town Gothic, Sneaking Through Windows, The Delinquents, first snow, so so much grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbecauseyoubelievesomething/pseuds/justbecauseyoubelievesomething
Summary: Three small town gothic stories intertwine as old friends reunite and try to make the best out of their lives. Raven returns home after her foster father’s death and is pulled like a magnet to her enigmatic highschool sweetheart. Jasper seeks solace from a tragedy and desperately attempts to outrun the ghosts of the past. Bellamy battles his inner demons and prays not to tear himself and his loved ones apart in the process. And all of them come to realize that they belong together, even if the place they call home is shadowed by sorrow.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, John Murphy/Raven Reyes, Monty Green/Jasper Jordan
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14
Collections: Chopped: Holiday Trope Exchange





	Dancing in Graveyards: An Arkadia Anthology

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Chopped Holiday Fic Exchange 2020!
> 
> The tropes I received were:  
> 1\. Small town gothic  
> 2\. Christmas Lights  
> 3\. First snow  
> 4\. Sneaking someone in/out of your window
> 
> To my lovely Chopped giftee, I hope you like this! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

  
  
  
  


i.

Raven is seven when they bring her to Arkadia, leaning her forehead listlessly against the cold glass of the back window as her social worker shifts through radio channels, searching in vain for something more music than static. She’s wearing white, a crisp new button-down with sleeves that are just a little too tight around the wrists and a little too short for her gangly arms. The button-down isn’t one she brought from home and it still doesn’t feel like her’s. She shifts and the starchy collar rasps at the skin of her neck just enough to annoy her.

The landscape is probably pretty enough in the spring. She imagines rolling hills of lush green, deep forests encroaching here and there on the winding highway, promises of blue summer sky and delicate deer standing over hidden creek beds. The dead grass and stripped winter tree limbs stare back at her, mocking her.

“I think you’ll really like it here, Raven,” the social worker pipes up. She’s too cheerful, with her curly red hair perpetually bouncing over her temples and the nape of her neck. She tips the rearview mirror slightly so she can flash a toothy smile at her charge. “It’s a big change from the big city, but I think it will be very peaceful for you.”

Raven drums the toes of her scuffed, black dress shoes against the back passenger seat. “Peaceful,” she repeats, deadpan.

The social worker blinks at her and then back at the road. “It won’t be for long. Just for a little bit, while your mom… gets better.”

The same slight pause in the middle of the sentence. The same hesitation every adult has when Raven asks about her mom. So this time she doesn’t ask. She keeps her eyes locked on the ashen fields flashing by and she tries not to think about how her mom isn’t ever going to get better. 

A giant billboard comes into view, nestled between gnarled trees. “Arkadia Power Plant: The Energy of Today, The Promise of the Future!” reads the bold white print across the top. In the background is an artistic rendering of a massive factory, silvery smokestacks and towers looking more like the spires of a fairytale castle. In the foreground, a man in a black suit hugs a blonde woman to his side, both of their smiles wide and welcoming. Raven’s gaze drops to the third figure in the picture, a small boy standing just off to the side. His hands are tucked obstinately into his pockets, ashy brown hair swept back into a row of gelled spikes. He’s smirking like he knows a secret, and Raven smirks back just before the billboard flashes past. 

  
  
  


Raven is twenty-five when her shoes hit the damp-streaked tile of the Polis county airport, single rolling suitcase in tow behind her, a headache beginning to thrum behind her right eye. She hesitates, feeling like a lost kid as the small crowd of passengers dissipates to the parking lot or their waiting family members, leaving her alone in the middle of the tiny terminal. It smells faintly of popcorn and she wrinkles her nose.

“We don’t take kindly to outsiders around here.”

The familiar, teasing voice sends the corner of Raven’s lips upwards into a half smile before she can stop herself and she spins around.

“Murphy.”

He steps forward, laughter dancing in his eyes.

“Reyes.”

She moves to hook her fingers around the handle of her luggage again and Murphy quickly closes the gap between them.

“No, let me.”

“I’ve got it.”

They wrap their fingers around the handle at the same time and Raven fixes him with a burning glare until he lets go with a chuckle.

“You haven’t changed a bit.”

She frowns, but he’s already spinning on his heel, trench coat twirling around his legs. She bites her lip and follows him through the rotating glass door. Even though the December air hits her like a blast freezer, not a speck of snow dots the desolate grey pavement. She’d at least hoped for sunshine on her arrival, but the dreary sky hangs heavy overhead and she sighs in resignation. Murphy’s car chirrups brightly as he unlocks it and Raven hurries to catch up with him.

The tires crackle over thin veneers of ice as Murphy navigates them onto the highway. The naked trees flanking the road begin to flash by and Raven leans against her cold window, relishing the coolness against her throbbing forehead.

“Hey.” She flicks her gaze sideways to him and Murphy twists his mouth in indecision for a few seconds. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make the funeral.”

Raven blinks slowly, a soft breath of remembered sadness fluttering at the back of her throat.

“Hardly anyone could,” she finally says. As if that makes it okay.

Murphy hums in acknowledgement. “Did it all go smoothly?”

She shrugs and turns back to the window. “As smoothly as a funeral ever goes.”

The outside is a blur of browns and greys, blending together into an oppressive blanket of shadows. Looming ahead, a rusty red against the dull sky, stands a large billboard for the Arkadia Power Plant: “The Energy of Today, The Promise of the Future!”

Raven watches the billboard pass by, gaze tracing the faded artistic rendering of the energy plant and the nuclear family in the foreground, now marred by more than one peeling tear in the worn canvas. One large rip obscures the little boy entirely.

“I can’t believe I’m back,” she scoffs quietly, breath leaving a small puff of condensation against the glass.

Murphy doesn’t say anything and she’s pretty sure he isn’t listening, so she closes her eyes and lets her thoughts wander. The soothing hum of the car fills the silence for a few moments.

“I’m glad you are.” Murphy’s words hang awkwardly for a second before he clears his throat. “Back. I’m glad you’re back.”

“Hmmm.” She doesn’t open her eyes, but she does smile a little.

  
  
  


Nygel is waiting for her, peeking out from between the subtly parted curtains of her front living room as if Raven can’t see her. Raven rolls her eyes and clicks her seatbelt open.

“Need help with your bags?” Murphy tucks one arm around his headrest as he cranes his neck to look in the back seat at her suitcase. “Or… singular bag?”

Raven rolls her eyes again. “I’m sure I can manage. Just wait here a minute. I need to get the key from Nygel.”

Murphy leans forward so he can also see Nygel’s window and he waves cheekily at the busybody. The curtains swoosh together immediately and Raven has to bite back a laugh.

“Behave.”

“Always, Reyes.” He winks at her and she ignores the urge to sit in the front seat with him and exchange friendly bickering for hours. Instead, she steps out, hugging the sleeves of her black pea coat around herself protectively. The heels of her boots clunk satisfyingly over the damp, cracked sidewalk as she takes the three steps up to Nygel’s door in a single stride and hits the buzzer.

Nygel opens the door just enough to fix her with a sickeningly sweet smile.

“Raven, dear! So lovely to see you!”

Raven tips her head and pastes a thin smile over her features.

“Hello, Nygel.”

The older woman leans a little to the side, eyebrows raised as she looks past Raven to the car.

“Already running around with that Murphy boy again?”

“We’re not exactly kids anymore. He picked me up from the airport.”

“Mmhmm…” Nygel squints slightly, the way she does when she thinks she’s collecting some juicy gossip. Raven balls her hands into fists just under the hems of her sleeves.

“I’m here to pick up the apartment key,” she prompts.

Nygel slowly looks back to her, scanning her up and down. “Of course.”

She fishes around in her pocket for a few more seconds than necessary and when she finally dangles the key out in front of her, Raven can barely restrain herself from snatching it. Instead she gives the woman another tight-lipped smile before accepting the key and gently tucking it in her pocket.

“I’m assuming you still know all the house rules?” Nygel asks, more than a little skeptically.

Before Raven can answer, the woman huffs a deep breath. “No smoking. No pets. No alcohol. No parties without prior permission of at least two weeks. No guests after 9pm. No…”

“I remember,” Raven cuts her off. “I’m only here for a couple weeks. Just packing up Sinclair’s stuff.”

She thinks there might be the faintest flicker of softness in Nygel’s sharp eyes, but it immediately vanishes replaced by a hawkish stare over Raven’s shoulder.

“Morning, Nygel!” Murphy’s cheerful voice rings out as he joins Raven on the step. He flashes the cheeky grin that’s made Arkadia’s old ladies melt for twenty odd years. “Long time no see.”

Nygel keeps her lips pursed and gives him a stiff nod. Murphy puts his hand on Raven’s shoulder. “Ready to head up?”

“Yep.” Raven lets him back her down the stairs. “Thank you, Nygel. I’ll let you know when I’m heading out.”

“If you stay over into January, you’ll owe another month’s rent,” the landlord snaps with a click of her tongue.

“I’ll definitely be out before Christmas. Don’t worry.” Raven turns to practically run back to the car where Murphy is pulling her luggage out. He pauses with the suitcase balanced between one hand and the edge of the seat.

“Out before Christmas, Reyes? Got big holiday plans?”

Raven folds her arms. “I’m sure they’re bigger and better than whatever you’ll be doing.”

“Hey, I’m the town’s wild child. I’m sure whatever I do will be entirely scandalous,” Murphy grins.

Raven shakes her head. “Just give me the suitcase. I can carry it upstairs.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, milady.” He sweeps the suitcase past her with a flourish and doesn’t even bother to set it on its wheels, keeping it hefted by his side instead. Raven trips over herself as she turns to follow him into the garage.

“Wait up!”

“I remember the way.” She can’t see his face, but she imagines the incredibly smug look on his face and she’s glad she’s momentarily behind him so he can’t see the dark blush coloring her ears.

The mechanic’s garage is strangely empty, only one of the three available spaces occupied by a dark blue pickup truck that Raven pointedly avoids staring at. Their footsteps echo over the oil stained concrete and the crowded tool benches, a faint metallic ping ringing back from the myriad tools scattered around the perimeter. Murphy seems to sense that she doesn’t want to stop and he quickly holds open the rickety swinging door leading to a narrow staircase that heads up over the main house. Raven’s feet feel too big on the warped stairs, soles of her boots softly scuffing the thin, mud-stained carpet. Behind her, Murphy’s weight shifts the balance of the staircase with each step, sending a shivering creak underfoot. It’s dark at the top and she slaps the light switch on the wall instinctively to flip on the yellow overhead light, revealing another rickety door with just enough of a landing to allow for the door to swing outward. Murphy’s breath hums softly behind her as she fumbles the key a few times before getting the lock to turn.

Stepping back into the apartment is like stepping back in time. The way the couches are arranged so Sinclair can talk Raven through her homework even from behind the kitchen counter. The single clean plate and fork sitting in the dish drainer by the sink. The pattern of dim mid morning light drifting in through the small kitchen window and carrying the loneliness of winter inside with it.

Raven shivers.

“Hey.” Murphy squeezes in next to her and rests the suitcase on the floor. For a second she’s afraid he’s going to hug her, but he shoves his fist into his pocket and keeps his distance. “Doing okay?”

“Yep,” she clips. Her lips barely move. It feels like she’s frozen, just like the furniture around her. Frozen in that awful moment between breaths where she got the call that Sinclair was being life-flighted to the nearest hospital equipped to deal with a brain aneurysm.

Murphy shifts back and forth, the bones of the apartment shuddering reluctantly with each movement. “You know, if you ever need to talk about anything… I’m here.”

Raven swallows hard, forcing herself back into the present. “I’m an overworked grad student. You think I don’t already have contact information for six different therapists?”

Murphy laughs short and sharp. “I guess that makes sense.” He sways back and forth some more and it feels wrong, like the apartment doesn’t want his living, moving presence there.

“Do you need any help unpacking?”

Raven absently reaches for her suitcase and rolls it forward a few feet. “I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Is that seriously all you brought?”

She shrugs. “I don’t own a lot of clothes anyways. And all my childhood stuff is here so…”

“Are you…” He hesitates. “Are you going to be okay here tonight? By yourself?”

The words should be accompanied by some sort of eyebrow waggling and suggestive tip of his head, but his tone is serious. Soft. It grates along her nerves.

“I’m fine.”

Murphy looks at her with something indiscernible in his eyes and she’s half-tempted to snap at him, but his gaze abruptly flicks away and he puts his hand on the door knob. “Well, my work here is done. But if you need anything… you know where to reach me.”

She sighs, the tension drawing her shoulders into a sharp, painful line dissipating a little. “Murphy… thank you.”

He gives her a half smile before letting himself out. She listens to the rhythmic whine of the stairs under his feet until it finally fades into silence. Then a moment later, the soft sound of a car engine starting out front and then nothing.

She means to get started immediately. Going through keepsakes, sorting clothing into donation boxes, taking down artwork. Business-like. Practical. Whatever helps her get through it.

Instead, she stands a few steps in from the door and lets the loneliness press in around her. The light shifts from mid morning to noon and then past noon as she lets her memories swirl through the empty room in flashes of visceral color. The nostalgia hurts, curled under her ribs in a lump that threatens to push up into her throat and choke her. She fights it in waves, broken by pauses of strangely resigned peace that dull her senses and fill her with guilt.

There’s a bottle of wine hidden in the cupboard underneath the tv. It’s one of the old, bulky television sets, surrounded by the deep cabinets of a fifteen-year-old entertainment set and Raven has a dry laugh over the chipped faux-wood shelves as she rummages through. 

She uncorks the bottle and stares at it a moment before deciding she’s still not quite unhinged enough to drink straight from the bottle. Instead, she finds a mug in the kitchen, one of her old painted ones with a ten-year-old’s depiction of Sinclair brandishing a wrench that’s bigger than he is. She stares at the blueish-grey spirals meant to depict his curly hair, bites her lip hard enough to draw a bead of blood, and sloshes some wine in carelessly. 

She fiddles with the thermostat and sighs in relief when she hears the vents rattle as the heat kicks on. With the main house underneath heated, it’s not exactly freezing, but still drafty enough to keep her coat on. She slowly lugs her suitcase down the hall to her old bedroom, even more cold air leaking through the floorboards directly over the garage.

The old maple tree growing against the back of the house taps the tips of its claw-like branches gently against her window, unfamiliar and yet tickling comfortably at the back of her childhood memories. Piles and piles of books fill the room, stacked along the walls like a second layer of insulation. The single bookshelf next to the closest is stuffed full of them and overflowing into more piles. The bedside table is surprisingly clear, but two more short stacks of books are arranged carefully underneath. In the dim light, Raven can just make out the neatly made bed, pillows fluffed and leaned against the plain headboard. She takes another step, mug trembling in her hand. 

She smoothes the top cover, deep red fleece, soft to the touch. The subtle flowery scent of laundry detergent hits her nose and suddenly the tears are streaming down her cheeks. She pictures Sinclair methodically stripping her unused sheets to wash them, gently making her bed with the top cover turned down just enough to welcome her home. Every month for seven years. Alone.

She yanks the covers up to her nose and breathes harshly, fist tightening around the blanket as she starts to sob.

  
  
  


ii.

When Jasper proposes to Maya, it’s the height of summer. He takes her on a picnic by the shoreline, only a twenty minute drive along the highway from Arkadia. She beams at him from the passenger seat, their fingers intertwined over the soda stained cupholders. They find a picturesque outcropping, shaded under deep blue evergreens with a view of the waves cresting in from the east. He tucks a yellow flower in her hair and asks her to marry him.

He’s eighteen and it’s the best day of his life.

Raven scoffs at him over the pharmacy counter when she comes to pick up her prescription. “You’re really tying yourself down already? Why don’t you get out there first? See what else is going on in the world?”

Jasper is too giddy to snap back at her rudeness. He steadies his glasses on the end of his nose as he counts out her pills.

“I’m just happy, I guess.”

She snorts again and tucks her prescription into her purse. Jasper leans forward on his elbows and winks knowingly.

“You know, I would have thought you and a um, certain someone, would have beat me and Maya to it.”

Raven blushes, glare intensifying. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jasper shrugs, but doesn’t stop smiling as she spins to leave. The bell over the door rings and he looks up expectantly, face lighting up for a split second.

Monty walks up, lips twitching with a barely contained grin. “Hey um.. Congratulations are in order, huh?”

Jasper raps his knuckles nervously on the countertop. “Yeah… yeah, I did it!”

They lock gazes and then both break out in laughter, making old Mrs. Kane huddled over her newspaper at the ice cream counter jump a little.

Monty doesn’t waste anymore time, rounding the corner of the pharmacy counter and barging through the swinging door to sweep Jasper into a hug. “I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!”

Jasper grunts and slaps his best friend’s back eagerly, ear splitting grin crinkling his cheeks.

Even Raven is smiling as she discreetly slips outside.

Monty pulls back, keeping his hand firmly on Jasper’s shoulder. “So? When’s the wedding? Have you picked out colors? Dare I ask who’s in the bridal party?”

Monty’s excited chatter blurs and swirls through Jasper’s head as he sinks into a warm pool of contentment. Best day of his life.

  
  
  


Maya is working the midnight shift at the plant when the warning siren goes off. The factory sits just outside the Arkadia outskirts, but the safety siren is piercing and it startles Jasper out of a deep sleep. He throws on a sweater and haphazardly puts his shoes on the wrong feet before stumbling out into the street. Around him, neighbors and friends are peering out front doors and windows, confused chatter beginning to drown out the distant plant siren.

His sleep-muddled brain swirls, then slows and his thoughts clarify.

Maya.

He left his keys on the table inside, so he runs, shoes pinching in all the wrong places against his bare feet. It’s a mile, maybe a mile and a half to the plant. A strangely chill breeze sweeps in from the coast and Jasper breaths it in, pushing himself to a sprint.

If any of the neighbors are alarmed by the sight of the lanky teen charging down the middle of the street, shoelaces tangling and dancing around his ankles, none of them say so. In fact, aside from the siren growing louder and his own frenzied breaths, the night is too silent.

He makes the run in eight minutes, lungs burning, side stabbing with pain at every step. He stumbles up to the front gate of the energy plant and hits his palms against the chain link fence frantically. 

“Someone! Anyone!”

The warning lights along the outside of the plant are flashing red, throwing bloody shadows across the entire area. Jasper steadies himself against the fence and screams again.

“Hey! What’s going on? Is anyone there?”

Somewhere behind him, he’s vaguely aware of fire sirens drawing closer. Maybe an ambulance.

His stare is glued to the front doors as they fly open and people begin to stumble out, most dressed in thick rubber suits. The parking lot between the gate and the plant slowly fills with people, many of them stumbling and tripping over each other. The ones without radiation suits are being helped out, barely moving.

Jasper slams himself against the gate, the thin rattle of metal barely a drop of noise against the wail of sirens from all directions.

“Please! Someone open the gate! Is Maya there? I need to see Maya!”

Firetrucks arrive on the scene and Jasper is shoved unceremoniously out of the way. He watches as they pry the gates open, heavy padlock clanking as it hits the ground. Paramedics and firemen swarm forward and Jasper skirts through with them, ignoring a few cries of protest.

Red light bathes his vision in rapid blinks, making his head swim as he fights through the crowd of workers.

“Maya? Has anyone seen Maya?”

Workers are scattering, crouching on the ground, coughing and shaking their heads. He pushes through faster, grabbing people’s shoulders and searching for a familiar pair of bright eyes.

“Maya?!”

“Jasper.”

One hand firmly grasps each shoulder, pulling him to a stop. He wrenches free and spins to the familiar voice.

Bellamy Blake isn’t wearing a radiation suit and his brown face is pockmarked with red blisters. As Jasper watches, a blister on the side of his friend’s neck bursts and paints the hollow of his throat with a rivulet of blood.

“I’m sorry, Jasper.” Clarke Griffin is standing next to Bellamy. Her blonde hair is bedraggled, long curls dampened with sweat sticking to her bare neck, face red and raw.

“Sorry…?” Jasper makes a move to dart between them towards the plant and Bellamy grabs him bodily.

“Where is she?” He claws at something, Bellamy’s arm or his throat, it hardly matters. “Where is she?!”

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy whispers and Jasper hears the way his voice crackles with guilt. “I had to shut the doors. I had to shut…”

Jasper rears back and slams his forehead into Bellamy’s nose, forcing the taller man to stagger back a step. Clarke latches her fingers around his wrist before he can dash away and for a split second they stare each other down.

“Stop, Jasper. Just stop,” she grits out. She’s missing an earring, he notices absently, only one dangling pearl gleaming blood red against the lights.

“What did you do?” he asks. He means it to come out as a snarl, but his fury is dying, leaving him cold straight down to his bones. His voice shifts into a whimper. “What did you do?”

Clarke lets go and he sinks to his knees, thin pajama pants scraping against rough cement. The world spins around him like a fever dream as Bellamy steps forward swiping dark mucus from his face. 

“Jasper. She’s gone.”

  
  
  


The radiation leak at the plant is a death toll for Arkadia. Alex Murphy tries his best to spin it for the reporters, but there are over one hundred workers dead. Shift Supervisor Bellamy Blake sealed the interior doors before the radiation leak could spread, but he also sealed almost the entire third shift inside.

Including Maya.

Jasper wanders like a ghost around town, bumping into people but not really seeing them. He dreams of red lights and haunting sirens. Blood bursting from fiery blisters. A yellow flower woven through strands of dark hair.

Maya’s body was nearly unrecognizable, but he cradled her face between his fingers anyways and cried all the tears he had left. Now he’s empty.

Fall creeps up and the plant stays closed. Families are leaving, migrating away slowly but surely. Looking for work that the Murphys and their nuclear plant can no longer promise. Alex Murphy grows greyer and thinner before the camera’s eye as the news cycle drags the story on and on. When his wife finds him dead with a pistol in hand, no one is surprised. The media vultures lap it up eagerly before finally growing tired of Arkadia’s picked over carcass and moving on.

Raven leaves without a goodbye or a backward glance. Off to a college on the other side of the country. Murphy shuts himself away somewhere. Bellamy and Clarke are still working around town, trying to pick up what few pieces remain. Jasper can’t stand the sight of them, the way their eyes grow cold with pity whenever he wanders into view.

He hates this town. Hates himself. The best day of his life over and gone in a swift flash and he can’t even bring himself to mourn it properly. Not while anger boils and burns just under his skin.

He drinks to numb the pain. Bottles and bottles of beer, clinking as they roll across his floor and mingle with discarded laundry. It doesn’t help, not really. But it’s something to do.

“Jasper?”

The voice swims through his clouded consciousness, shaky and familiar. He smiles groggily.

“What?”

“Jasper.” The voice is sad now. Disappointed. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

He frowns. His last drink sits sour on the back of his tongue and he vaguely remembers passing out in front of the tv.

“I’m not doing anything,” he mutters. The words are thick and heavy on the tip of his tongue and he realizes he probably doesn’t sound the most convincing. “Sleeping,” he adds, hoping that makes the voice go away.

It doesn’t.

“I can’t watch this anymore.” He hears a thumping sound in the background, something being opened and shut. “I’m getting you out of here. Starting over.”

Starting over sounds nice. Clean. Too easy.

Jasper groans and tries to roll over. “How?”

Footsteps. A face swims into view. Monty’s fingers gentle along his temple and the side of his cheek before pulling back hesitantly. “Trust me.”

  
  
  


The old lighthouse on the coast goes for a fairly decent price and Jasper doesn’t ask where Monty gets the money. He watches while Monty moves both their things into the attached house, taking great care and concern with the placement of every stick of furniture.

He feels a soft fondness curl at the base of his throat and sit like a lump. It aches when he tries to talk so he doesn’t do much of that at first. Monty seems to understand.

They move in as winter sinks its teeth into the coastal town. Sheets of glistening ice spread over the smaller coves and inlets before making way to the inky black of the churning sea beyond. Jasper wakes up in the morning and admires the spectral beauty of frost patterning the window and for the first time in six months his vision is clear.

It’s cold in the lighthouse. Very cold. Monty’s mom sends them thick fishermen sweaters for Christmas and Monty laughs nervously when they open the package. But after Jasper slips it over his head he does feel warmer. Or maybe it’s the twinkle of warmth in Monty’s gaze after he does so.

They slowly fill their little seaside home with beauty and peace. Things that don’t remind him of red and blood and sirens. Gorgeous sea glass bottles find places alongside colorful shells. Monty gets the fireplace cleaned properly and they enjoy evenings sitting on the floor next to the flickering fire, leaning close to each other so Jasper can whisper softly if he wants to try talking. There’s whiskey occasionally at dinner times, but Jasper’s not stupid and he notices Monty slowly weaning it away. He can’t bring himself to argue.

He walks up and down the coast in the salty cold air, teaching himself how to breathe deeply again. And if there’s a certain outcropping covered in juniper trees that he pauses at more often than anywhere else, that’s between him and the seagulls.

The lighthouse is nonfunctional in this day and age, but when there are furious storms, they climb to the top with quilts wrapped around them like capes, and they watch the lightning dance through the clear glass. Sometimes clear as silver it strikes followed quickly by shaking thunder. Sometimes it’s a distant yellow glow, scattering through low hanging storm clouds, the thunder a low rumble on the edge of their hearing. It never glows red.

Jasper starts to let go, the memories slipping through his fingers like the sand he picks up along the shore. Winter bleeds into spring and into summer and he takes Monty to an outcropping covered in the shade of evergreens and muddled with the scent of yellow flowers. He weaves another flower through strands of dark hair.

But he doesn’t ask a question this time. Doesn’t know how.

Monty knows anyways, keen eyes staring through his soul.

“We don’t ever have to go back. If you don’t want to…. Do you want to?”

Jasper shakes his head. Licks his lips uncertainly.

“I think… I could be happy.” He blinks slowly at Monty, hoping against hope he understands what he’s trying to say. “I think I could learn it again.”

Monty takes his hand. “I’ll wait here with you. As long as it takes.”

The wind blows cold across Jasper’s cheek and he tastes winters to come, bundled in heavy sweaters, huddling under quilts with cold toes pressed against the backs of bare legs, St. Elmo’s fire lighting the night sky above. He’s not happy yet. But he’ll learn.

  
  
  


iii.

Raven is shaken out of a deep sleep to the sound of tapping against the walls. Her room is pitch black except for the faintest blue starlight bleeding from the crack between her curtains. Her head is pounding as she reaches out and grabs the half-empty wine bottle from the nightstand. The tapping increases, urgent. Inhuman.

She was dreaming of Sinclair, memories layered on guilty memories. She tries to shake the dreams away, the sound of skeletal fingertips rapping against her window shaking her to her core. The walls feel too close and her skin skitters.

Suddenly the tapping shifts to a single sharp knock, directly on the glass pane of her window. She jumps, the last bits of fog clearing from her mind and whips the curtain open.

“What the fuck?”

Murphy crouches along the gnarled limb of the ancient tree, drumming his fingers impatiently on her window. He mimes shivering, wrapping his arms around himself comically.

She huffs and sets the bottle down before opening the tiny window with a creak of sliding wood.

“Seriously?”

Murphy snakes his way through the window, landing ungracefully on the floor. He doesn’t bother to jump up right away, sprawling and sticking his tongue out at her. “I get that you’re not happy to be back, but to lock a guy out in the cold? Heart of stone, Reyes.”

She eases the window back down, already covered in goosebumps. “What the fuck are you doing here, Murphy?”

He gets to his feet and slouches back on her bed. “Keeping you company, obviously?”

She crosses her arms over the chest of her thin sleep shirt, suddenly cognizant of the fact that she’s wearing little else. Murphy’s gaze stays respectfully trained on her face though, igniting a tiny flicker of warmth in the pit of her stomach.

She shakes her head and moves to the corner near the door to flick on the standing lamp, bathing the bedroom in a warm amber light. Murphy squints against the light, one hand coming up to shield his eyes slightly.

Raven sighs and comes back around to stand in front of him. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“So formal.” At her answering scowl, he holds up both hands in surrender. “Water would be fine.”

She eyes him over, the faint purple tinge at the corners of his lips, the telling huddle of his shoulders. “Hmm… I’m thinking something warmer. Cocoa or something.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, padding down the cold hall to the kitchen, grateful she kept her socks on at least. The cocoa mix is still in the same tin alongside boxes of chamomile tea and behind the sandwich baggies. She selects a mug at random and mindlessly heats some water before dumping the powdered mix inside and grabbing a spoon. She gives it a couple swirls as she heads back to the bedroom.

Murphy raises the uncorked wine bottle towards her as she steps through the door before taking a long swig. Raven pulls up short in the doorway and absently gives the cocoa another sludgy stir.

Murphy winks. “Already half-empty? I can’t believe you started the party without me, Reyes.”

She opens her mouth to respond and the words abruptly stick in her throat as she stares at him, lounging across her bed, wine in hand, mischief written all over his face. A strange feeling bubbles up in her chest and she takes a deep breath shoving it back down. Her face feels too warm as she steps in and sets the mug down precariously on the edge of the bookshelf.

Murphy takes another sip of wine and smacks his lips. “So…”

Another deep breath as she centers herself. “Murphy, what are you really doing here? I told you I’d be fine tonight.”

“Oh yeah, of course.” He sits up a little straighter, gesturing to himself with the wine bottle. “I just came for old time’s sake. You know… juvenile memories. The nostalgia of youth.” He takes another sip that’s more of a gulp.

Raven gingerly sits next to him, the bed creaking slightly to accommodate both of them. She tries very hard not to think of the bed creaking beneath them in other circumstances. Hands gripping the sheets underneath her as he crawls over her, eyes alight with desire and something else. Something that makes her feel seen. Too seen.

Murphy snaps his fingers in front of her face. “Earth to Raven. Paging Dr. Reyes.”

She blinks. “Not a doctor yet.”

“Whatever.” He holds out the bottle to her. “Where’d you go?”

To avoid the question she grabs the bottle and downs as much as she can in one swallow. She rests the bottle against her bare thigh, light-headed and confused.

“Just… dealing with a lot of memories.”

She expects a teasing joke, but he only nods gently, eyes soft and sad. She passes the wine back.

“We need music.” The words spill out before she can stop them and she jumps up to pull her old record player out of the closet. Murphy watches closely and she can’t tell if his expression is amused or concerned. Either way, the blood is rushing to her face and she busies herself with her old records, finally putting on a classical symphony. 

As strains of violas fill the bedroom Murphy steps up next to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. She stiffens expectantly, but he turns her gently towards him and holds out his other hand.

“May I have this dance?”

Raven automatically slips her hand into his, brow furrowed so hard it hurts. “Umm…”

“Shhh…” His eyes are dancing again, his barely contained mirth making her relax despite herself. “I lead, remember?”

She remembers. Vividly.

Their steps fall easily into place, waltzing around the crammed sides of her twin bed and back to the doorway. There’s hardly any room, no space for a step out of place, but the dance is a practiced one. Smooth, comfortable, peaceful. It scares her.

She shouldn’t feel at home in his arms. Shouldn’t feel at home here at all. It’s never been her’s. Like an ill-fitting shirt, chafing at her no matter how she squirms.

Arkadia has no place for her and she prefers it that way.

She breaks the dance to sweep up the wine and chug two more mouthfuls. As she wipes her mouth roughly with the back of her hand she catches Murphy’s face wrinkled in sympathy. He instantly smooths it over, blinking innocently at her. She glares and takes another drink.

“I’m thinking of having a Christmas party,” he says.

“What?”

He shrugs. Slowly and too nonchalant. “A Christmas party. You know? Christmas? I thought you still celebrated it anyways...”

“Shut up.” She blinks at him, head buzzing. From the dancing or the wine she can’t tell. “Who would even come to a Christmas party?”

Arkadia is a ghost town, is the part she doesn’t say.

Murphy tilts his head at her. “Well… you’re home. So that’s one for sure.”

“You’re awfully confident.”

He grins and picks up the mug of cocoa. “I mean I did just climb through your bedroom window uninvited and still managed to get wine, a dance, and hot cocoa.” He takes a slurp of the cocoa and winces. “Hot-ish cocoa.”

She wants to argue, but he’s impossible to argue with and he knows it. So she pouts into the wine instead.

“Sounds like a lame Christmas party.”

“Well of course it would be lame with just you.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re not exactly the life of the party, Reyes.”

He takes another grimacing sip and then ticks off on his fingers. “Jasper, Monty, Bellamy, Clarke… with you and me the whole gang is actually in town this year. We could get everyone back together!”

She stares at him for a moment, symphony strings humming in the background. “Oh, you’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” He slams the mug down on the bookshelf, shaking the carefully balanced books just slightly. “Christmas is the time for reconciliations, new beginnings… all that shit. Right?”

She laughs. She doesn’t mean too and she definitely doesn’t mean for it to sound so bitter, but it spills out of her. The stony set of his jaw tells her he gets it. He’s prodding an old wound, just picking away at the scars until they bleed. Idiotic.

Idealistic, maybe.

The wine is warm right down to her toes and there’s a tickle at the back of her neck as she steps closer to him again. She’s swaying a little and she knows it, but the music is singing and her blood is thrumming. 

Murphy looks confused as she comes almost nose to nose with him. Her idealistic idiot. Fuck, she’s in trouble.

She puts her hands on his shoulders, more to keep herself at arm’s length than for any other reason. His hands automatically come up to her elbows, steadying her.

“Maybe I should go?”

“Shhh…” she imitates his hushing from earlier. “You want help with this party, right?”

His eyes brighten. “So you’ll come? You’ll stay?”

She frowns a little. “Stay? Until Christmas?”

His fingers rub circles against her skin. Her socked feet brush the tips of his boots slightly as she leans up on her tiptoes. The tip of his tongue darts out and wets his bottom lip as he looks pointedly at her.

“Well… yeah. Yes. Christmas Eve at least?”

His ashy brown hair sweeps a little to one side, shorter behind the ears than it was in highschool. She wonders if it’s soft to the touch, digs her nails into his coat slightly to keep herself from reaching up to touch it.

“Fine. Christmas Eve.”

“I knew you still had some holiday spirit in you, Reyes.”

“Don’t go ruining my reputation.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  
  
  


She wakes up when he’s leaving early one morning, the humidity of the early summer predawn drifting in through the open window. She smiles lazily at him from her bed, tangled hair splayed across the pillow and he smiles back, sheepishly.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“It’s okay.” She stretches, yawning luxuriously. “I have a car coming in at eight anyways.”

Murphy steps back over to the bed and bends to place a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t forget to pick up your birth control today.”

She hums thoughtfully as he pulls away. “Do you want me to stop by your house for lunch?”

“Are you sure you want to be seen associating with me in broad daylight?”

The words are a joke, but there’s a sting behind them. Raven sits up partially, blankets pooling around her waist. “Okay… I was serious.”

He shrugs stiffly. The soft morning mood between them is quickly evaporating. 

Raven fiddles with the edge of her blanket. “You know that this whole thing is just.. It’s just less complicated…”

“I get it.” He crouches to ease his way out the window. “You’re the classy genius destined for greatness and I’m… the face of Arkadia.” He turns back to flash a half-smile, but it’s tired and wan.

Raven swallows a lump in her throat. “I never said those words.”

“You didn’t have to, Reyes. I heard you loud and clear.” He swings himself through the window, balancing deftly on the outstretched branch. He hesitates, staring back inside, gaze roving her body. She resists the urge to hide under the covers again.

“You know, you do belong here? I know you’ve always complained about sticking out, but that’s not the same thing as not belonging.”

She bites her lip and tilts her head, trying to summon a playful smile. “Ever the romantic, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he deadpans. He turns away from the window. “Want me to come back over tonight?”

Raven ignores the swell of bitterness in her chest. “Sure. Why not?”

“Right. See ya, Reyes.”

She watches him go and then lies very still to watch the sun rise and spill like golden liquid through the open window. She lies still until she hears Sinclair making breakfast in the other room and then she finally gets up and reluctantly shuts the window.

He doesn’t come back that night. 

  
  
  


iv.

Bellamy remembers the first time he saw something die. He’s eight years old when he finds the dog on the side of the road, back legs crushed, blood trailing behind it in the snow. Cars whip past with no regard as the boy stops his bike abruptly and moves to crouch near the creature. It whimpers, eyes already glazed over with pain. It moves its front paws helplessly, still trying to drag itself away.

Bellamy circles it twice, footfalls heavy in the slushy snow. The dog cries softly, body mangled beyond repair. The sounds of the rushing cars fades into a dim ambience behind him as he kneels.

“Shh…” He pulls out his pocket knife and takes a moment to stroke the dog’s thin brown ears. “It’s okay.”

His hand shakes. Shit. He can’t do this. The dog’s dim eyes look up at him, pools of dark that plead with him for mercy.

“Hey.”

He drops the knife in the slush as he jumps at the unfamiliar voice. Another biker drops their bike in the snow and steps up next to him.

Rosy cheeks and straggling blond hair sticking to her chapped lips. A coat that his mom would have to save for months to buy for Octavia.

Clarke Griffin.

Bellamy swallows his immediate groan of distaste as the younger girl circles the wounded animal just as he had. She frowns, then holds out her hand.

“What?”

“Your knife.” She nods towards the ground. “You dropped it.”

He rolls his eyes, but bends and picks up the pocket knife. A slight pause as Clarke shakes her outstretched hand insistently. Then he hands it over.

“Thanks,” she says softly as she crouches over the dog. Bellamy crouches with her, not sure how to help, but not wanting to look away.

Clarke ruffles the dog’s ears, making soft shushing sounds. “You’ll feel better soon.” She starts to hum very softly and Bellamy blinks at her in surprise. The tune is familiar. Some kind of nursery rhyme, he thinks. Something about a dog.

He almost doesn’t notice when she pushes the knife through the dog’s throat, easing it across and out the front of its windpipe. The dog goes still, dark blood staining the dirty snow. She takes one shaky breath and wipes the knife in the snow before handing it back.

Bellamy takes it slowly. She actually did a decent job wiping off the blood.

She nods and moves to get back on her bike. 

“Clarke?”

She turns around, eyebrows arched up questioningly. She looks so much older than he thought. In that moment, older than him.

Bellamy swallows thickly. “Um.. thanks. If you ever need anything…?”

She smiles and if it was anyone else he would put it off as condescending. Irritating. But she smiles and it feels like the sun is shining through the clouds.

“I’ll let you know,” she says gently.

  
  
  


Christmas lights twinkle from the neighborhood windows, whites and reds intermingled with silvery blues. Bellamy ignores them and trudges through the snow resolutely, keeping his eyes forward, collar drawn almost up to his ears. The brown cobblestone house on the corner stands dark and ominous, waiting for him.

He bounds up the front steps, shaking flurries of snow from his shoulders like a dog. If the neighbors are watching, peering through thin slivers between the curtains, he doesn’t see them. Not tonight anyways. He turns his key in the lock and shuffles inside.

A single muted light casts a sickly orange glow across the carpet and up to meet the toes of his boots. He sighs a little forcefully as he unwinds his scarf.

“I told you not to wait up.”

Clarke doesn’t look up at him, but he sees one of her eyebrows rise as if daring him to continue. She keeps her gaze on her lap though, her fingers moving like lightning as she knits, a pile of soft grey yarn taking shape into some sort of sweater.

Bellamy steps out of his heavy boots and crosses in front of her to slump on the other side of the couch. The clock on the wall reads 1:03 a.m. Clarke’s needles click sharply in the quiet.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she says after a few minutes of silence. Her needles keep moving. Definitely a sweater forming in her lap. He’ll have to add it to his collection.

Bellamy watches her from the corner of his eye, the way the edges of her lips are perpetually tight, the way the gold hair at her temples carries hints of grey. If he was a better man he would reach out and touch her face, remind her that everything is going to be okay.

He keeps his hands tucked in his lap, hunched forward to hide himself.

They watch the minutes tick away.

“My mom called again,” Clarke says. She doesn’t sound angry. Just tired.

Bellamy rubs his hands across his face. “Asking about Christmas?”

“Of course.”

“And?”

Clarke hesitates. The needles slow.

“I told her we would be busy.”

Bellamy turns, just enough to meet her gaze. “Is that okay?”

Her eyes dart from side to side, examining him with a precision that should frighten him.

“It’s always okay.”

She’s waiting for some kind of answer so he gives her a short nod. She turns away. The needles resume their pace.

“We…” Bellamy stops. Rearranges his thoughts. “I… just can’t… I mean… I need people to just forget. You know?”

Clarke stops again, but doesn’t turn to him this time. Her thumb slides up and down her knitting needle. Contemplative.

“I know.”

“I know you know, but…” He blinks a few times and swallows roughly. “Do you understand?:

She’s quiet for a moment, thumb sliding up and down. Up and down.

“You know I understand,” she whispers. It’s a heavy whisper. A pang of guilt sinks down to the pit of his stomach for the brief second her hands remain still. Then she’s knitting again, briskly, and it’s like the moment never happened.

“I understand,” she says again, more herself.

Bellamy stands slowly, considers grabbing a beer from the fridge and discards the idea. “I’m going to bed.”

Clarke doesn’t look up. “Good night.”

“Good night.” The guilt chases him all the way down the hall and climbs under the sheets with him, an icy shadow against his side. He rolls over and settles in for another sleepless night.

  
  
  


The Arkadia “Incident” as it was dubbed by the media, faded out of the limelight after six months or so. Bellamy can’t help but feel that’s unfair, considering the damage done to his life.

Former friends whisper and point as he walks down the street, some with anger, some with pity, most with just plain curiosity.

He hates all of it, regardless.

When he took the Arkadia settlement package and abruptly withdrew into his little house on the corner, he assumed the rest of the town would breathe a collective sigh of relief.

He didn’t expect Clarke Griffin to turn up on his doorstep, suitcase in tow.

“You have another bedroom, right?” He stared her up and down and couldn’t say no.

They were in this together, right? Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin. Saviors of Arkadia.

Or murderers.

The snow is wet and heavy around his ankles as he darts across the street to the old park. The walking trail, overgrown by heavy fir trees, hasn’t been plowed, but he finds solace there anyways, stretching his legs. The winter evening presses down around him, the sunset long since faded over the horizon, and only the dim yellow of streetlights ghosting along the surface of the snow.

This is the only time he ventures out now. No stares. No whispers. Just him and his demons, howling to climb out from his ribcage and tear into his flesh.

Other than that, the walk is peaceful. Bellamy’s never seen another soul on this path, an old gravel trail that the city has most likely forgotten completely. He savors the crisp sound of his boots against the fresh snow, the soft whistling of cold wind through the trees. His mind starts to wander.

Sirens. As always there are sirens. Piercing and sharp against his eardrums.

Then there’s red light. Flashing across his hands and Clarke’s face. Painting her in alternating shadows and highlights. Like the bloody imprint of a skull.

Then comes pain. Burning under the surface of his skin. Boils and blisters beginning to burst across his neck. Red skin bubbling down Clarke’s cheek.

Pure panic and their fingers together on the emergency sealing button.

The grainy images of workers,  _ his _ workers, frantically dancing across the security screens. Convulsing with radiation poisoning. Pounding, scratching, clawing, clawing, clawing at the door…

Pain stabs up through his fingers and Bellamy blinks, soft snow whirling down against the back of his bare neck. Deep scratches gash through the bark of the tree in front of him and as he yanks his hands back his nails wrench free of the splintered wood. Blood wells up from under his nails and the tips of his fingers and he watches dumbly as it drips down and across the snow.

“Fuck.” He swipes his hand unthinkingly across the front of his sweater, leaving a streaky stain through the grey home-knit. “Fuck!”

He’s spiraling again. Dr. Tsing’s condescending voice floats back to him.

“You can’t keep everything inside, Bellamy. Eventually it will come out, whether you want it to or not.”

He stopped seeing her after three appointments. That was over a year ago and he wonders if she’s laughing somewhere right now.

His fingers are throbbing and Clarke is waiting. He tucks his damaged hand under his coat and stumbles towards home. His breath hangs heavy in the cold air, every movement slower than it should be. The park feels a million miles wide, the night an endless void just waiting to swallow him. He staggers onwards.

  
  
  


She doesn’t say much about his hand. Not at first.

She pulls out her first aid kit and swabs each finger with antiseptic, cleaning under the ragged nails, keeping his palm in a tight grip despite his hisses of pain. The blood slowly washes away, just like the sweater now soaking in a washtub on the floor. She carefully wraps gauze around each finger, hands gentle in the bright light of the bathroom and Bellamy suddenly remembers that she had planned to go to med school once. Before she stopped by the plant that night. Before the world stopped moving.

He pulls his hand back sharply. “Thanks.”

She sits back on her heels on the bathroom floor, gaze bright. Searching. They don’t talk to each other like this anymore, under bright lights, open and seeing. Everything is muddled, hushed under covers of darkness and thick stone walls. Baskets of yarn and half done art projects.

He winces, but can’t think of a good reason to stand up and walk away.

“Where did you go?” she asks.

He shrugs, flexing his bandaged fingers experimentally. “To the park. Just like I always…”

“But where did you go?” she asks softly. She twines a piece of gauze through her fingers and then unwinds it again. Twines and unwinds. A softer version of her knitting needles.

Bellamy blinks at her and sees a crimson-washed skull. A commander of death.

Her voice clear as a bell, telling him to push the button.

“You were there too,” he says, before he can stop himself. Before he can filter.

She sits back on her heels. Fingers weaving slowly.

“You were there too and…” He swallows painfully, every word a dagger to the inside of his throat. “You helped me kill those people.”

The corners of her eyes wrinkle and for a brief second he sees the sorrow she hides so carefully. Then it vanishes under a flash of anger.

“We saved people. If we hadn’t shut those doors…”

“I see them, Clarke.” The more he talks, the more frantic the words become. “I can’t stop seeing them. Trying to get out. Trying to open the damn door.”

His hands fly to his hair and before he thinks about it he’s gripping his curls tightly. His fingertips scream with pain. “I go back there and I… I’m with them. I can’t get out.”

“Bellamy…” Her hand is cool on his knee, even through his jeans. “Everything is okay. Just listen to me…”

He winces and closes his eyes. “You’re a killer, Clarke. Just like me.”

“Bellamy…”

He hums, a thin wavering tune from a children’s song. Something about a missing dog.

The slight pressure of her hand on his knee vanishes as she abruptly stands.

He opens his eyes.

She’s backed against the wall, shaking with anger.

“How dare you?” For a second he thinks she might slap him and he waits for it. Wants to relish the feeling of pain. 

But she straightens and flings the door open, stalking down the hall into her bedroom. He hears her door slam shut and then utter silence fills the house again.

Bellamy holds out his hands. Blood seeps faintly through the white gauze. Soon everything will be stained red.

  
  
  


“Hey man, long time no see.”

Murphy’s voice is like something from one of his worst nightmares. Bellamy turns slowly, hoping against hope that it’s just his imagination.

Instead, John Murphy grins wryly back at him from the end of the conveyor belt. He wiggles his fingers at him airily. “I thought you might have left town.”

Bellamy shrugs awkwardly, knowing full well he’s not responding appropriately. He pushes his own meager basket of groceries forward a little, as if it will get him through the line faster.

Murphy starts unloading his own groceries across the belt, a noticeably healthier selection than Bellamy’s. “So how are things?”

Bellamy blinks at him, trying to figure out if he’s joking. “Um… uh…”

Murphy shakes his head with a brief chuckle. “That bad, huh?”

Bellamy stares at the flecks of frost on the jug of milk Murphy sets on the belt. “Define bad.”

He expects some sort of quip, but Murphy stays quiet for a few seconds, focused on his food. Bellamy inches forward, wondering if that’s the end of the conversation.

Murphy piles the last of his food on the belt and takes a deep breath.

“My dad was an asshole.”

“Excuse me?”

Murphy shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “He was. I know we had this fantastic nuclear family image going on, but he was an asshole. And my mom…” Bellamy sees the sadness of the more recent death flicker through Murphy’s eyes briefly. “My mom was even worse.”

Bellamy blinks at his old friend, head swimming. “I’m… sorry?”

Murphy laughs, a sharp bark of a sound that echoes through the small grocery store. “I’m not looking for pity, Blake. You know that.”

Bellamy bites back a pithy response because he really does know that. Better than most.

Murphy shifts his weight back and forth. “Look, I’m just saying… things aren’t always black and white. I feel like shit about my parents. They were bad people and I still felt bad when they died.”

Bellamy blinks again, the words slowly sinking in. “I guess… I get that.”

Murphy stares at him and Bellamy feels that same soul piercing search that happens when Clarke looks him over. “Do you?”

Bellamy tenses his jaw and looks away, cursing himself for backing down.

“The past is all fucked. No matter which way you look at it.” Murphy takes a step closer and Bellamy turns to look at him, the air between them growing thick as Murphy raises an eyebrow. “Now you have to live with it. Right?”

Bellamy matches his stare, unblinking. Battling some unseen force clawing at his insides.

“Sir? Sir!”

The cashier’s annoyed tone shatters the staring match and Murphy smirks as Bellamy spins around to pay for his groceries. As he gathers up the bags Murphy winks at him.

“You’ll get there. Tell Clarke I said hi.”

Bellamy walks out into the brisk winter air, plastic bags tugging at his knuckles.

Now you have to live with it. Like some sort of command. 

The demon inside him screams, rages, begs. But not to be let out, like the workers at the plant. 

This demon wants to stay.

Bellamy nearly drops the bags as he starts to run, feet skidding over slush. 

He has to live with it. Somehow, someway.

Murphy’s right. It’s all fucked. He can’t stay trapped any more.

He bounds up the front steps and throws the door open with a bang.

Clarke is knitting, curled up on the couch, face drawn in thin, tense lines.

She looks up in surprise as he drops the bags on the floor, chest heaving with emotion.

“Bellamy?”

The first thing she’s said to him since their fight. And even behind her own pain, behind the anger and frustration, he sees the light in her eyes. Waiting for him to fight his way out of that trap.

He’s standing on the carpet in front of her, dripping melted snow everywhere. Behind him one of the cans rolls out of the bag and hits the wall with a soft thump.

Clarke blinks up at him. “Bell? What is it?”

He thinks about grainy screens and distant screams and bloody scratches along tree trunks and then he thinks about Clarke on the bathroom floor. Hands full of gauze. Or in the snow, holding a knife. Hands of mercy.

He takes a deep breath. “Do you want to go to your mom’s for Christmas?”

  
  
  


v.

The Murphy house is one of the grand relics of Arkadia’s heyday, back when the power plant was a promising dream and Alex Murphy was pulling in investors. Raven feels a little in awe as she walks up the driveway. There are Christmas lights everywhere. Lines of them cover each side of the driveway and the walk up to the front door. They’re strung along the eaves over the garage and above the windows. They dangle in icicle strings from the massive trees dotting the lawn. Multicolored bulbs flick on and off as she approaches and she feels another little shiver of delight. Murphy let his inner child loose this year and she hates to admit that she’s very much in love with it.

She doesn’t let herself follow that train of thought any further.

Murphy swings open the door with a flourish and a bright grin that doesn’t match his overly formal tone. “Ms. Reyes.”

She tips her head. “Mr. Murphy.”

He practically giggles and yanks her inside before she can take another step herself.

“Throw your coat wherever,” he calls back as he all but skips down the hall into the kitchen. Delicious smells intermingle as Raven slips off her coat and leaves it on the bench in the entryway. She takes a deep openmouthed breath, tasting the richness of the air.

“Murphy, did you actually cook?” she teases as she rounds the corner only for her words to stick in her throat. On her left is the open kitchen where Murphy is smirking and stirring a bubbling pot, one of several on the stove. Trays of Christmas cookies are lined along the counter, tempting passersby to grab one or two. On her right is the living room, where a massive tree is standing in front of the wall of floor to ceiling windows. 

Raven steps closer, the scent of pine overtaking her senses. Boxes of ornaments and more coils of lights are scattered across the floor and she carefully steps over them to stand under the tree, feeling absolutely dwarfed by the twelve foot evergreen. 

“Murphy, this is… this is…”

“Terrible, I know,” he pops up by her shoulder. He picks up a string of lights and shoves them at her. “That’s why I needed you here early. You’re on decorating duty.”

“I… what?”

“You heard me!” He jumps over a box on his way back into the kitchen. “I have potatoes, ham, and three different kinds of gravy going right now. I definitely wouldn’t be able to get that done on my own.”

Before Raven can say another word, he cranks the knob on the radio and the house fills with Christmas music. Murphy dances as he makes his way back to the stove to stir his concoctions again and Raven bites back a laugh at the look of concentration on his face. 

She turns to the tree and flicks the coil of lights a little, sending the first half spiraling out across the floor. Well, let it never be said that Raven Reyes left a job undone.

It turns into a sort of race, Raven with decorations flying here and there and Murphy slamming oven doors and shifting things around to fit on the countertop and in the fridge. Christmas songs blast through every room and Raven finds herself singing and dancing along.

She catches Murphy once, making a funny face at her as she turns around from hanging up some of his family ornaments. They both look away and pretend it didn’t happen. She tells herself that the flush across her cheeks is definitely from the overheated air.

In the end, Murphy finishes the food first and comes over to help her. They weave around each other, every step another careful dance. The spell remains unbroken right up until Murphy places the star on top of the tree and Raven helps him fold the ladder back up and push it against the wall.

“Alright, ready?” Murphy calls, dragging the extension switch over with his foot.

Raven does a little half-circle, making sure everything is in the appropriate place, feeling an odd fluttering in her stomach. “Ready.”

“Lights, camera, action, and all that,” Murphy chuckles and hits the switch.

It’s like watching something magical sweep through the house. The lights spiraling around the tree jump to life, tiny radiant rainbows glittering off of colored balls and garland as well as heirloom glass. A row of lights intertwined with fresh pine branches along the fireplace mantel flick on as well. Then the fairy lights sweeping down in elegant waterfalls from the vault-like ceiling.

Raven turns another little circle, mouth open in wonder. Feeling like a kid again.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.

Her hand brushes against Murphy’s and she jumps a little.

“Oh!” She jumps back. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He doesn’t move. Gaze steady on her, not the lights.

The lights flicker off his eyes, bright and warm. Doing funny things to her stomach.

She licks her lips. “Um, Murphy?”

“Yeah?”

The doorbell rings loudly and Raven sucks in a deep breath. “I think the others are here.”

He smiles, but she can see the hurt behind it. “Thanks.”

Raven runs to get the door before she can get herself into any more trouble.

  
  
  


They all come. Raven is too busy helping Murphy dish out food to stand there with her jaw on the floor, but the shock doesn’t wear off for the first hour anyways.

Her friends actually show up.

Jasper and Monty, in thick sweaters with ice shards crusted in their hair. Jasper actually looks happy and Raven notices the way Monty keeps their hands softly intertwined and she actually has to excuse herself to go sob in the bathroom for a few moments because she never thought they’d find their way. Not after everything.

Bellamy comes in with Clarke a step behind him and there’s some tense glances all around, but Bellamy looks at Clarke and she nods back and they both put on big smiles and give hugs to everyone. Bellamy’s bone crushing hug surprises Raven, but she pats his back and when he whispers, “It’s good to see you,” she’s surprised at how genuine it sounds.

Murphy seems in his element, keeping the small talk going, filling up drinks, making sure everyone has food. Raven floats along in his wake, feeling two steps away from drowning.

It’s all too much. Too much to hope for. Too much to feel. Not when there’s a pit of sorrow yawning in her chest, threatening to swallow the whole room.

By the time they’re all seated at the long table, Christmas lights dancing above, Raven is numb. She watches as Murphy clinks his fork on the side of his glass a few times, bringing silence over the room. He stands, his chair screeching loudly as he pushes it back.

“I’d like to say a few words,” he starts and then pauses. The silence grows and with it the tension. Smiles suddenly feel forced. Raven presses her lips together, butterflies intensifying.

Murphy raises his glass, seemingly lost in thought as he watches the wine swirl slowly around. Finally he sighs and looks across the table.

“We’ve all seen some shit,” he says, voice hard and honest. Raven watches as everyone straightens in their seats. Murphy scans the room and wets his lips. “We’ve all seen some shit,” he says a little quieter. “And now, I think we’ve earned our peace.”

Jasper is smiling down into his plate and Monty is grinning too, hand on Jasper’s shoulder. Clarke whispers something in agreement and Bellamy keeps his gaze on Murphy, nodding emphatically. Only Raven is left with a sinking feeling. Drowning.

Murphy raises his glass high. “To peace. To family.” He looks down the table and meets Raven’s eyes. “To home.”

“To home.” They drink.

Raven pushes her chair back and runs. Leaving her coat behind, she bursts through the front door and down the long driveway. Running far, far away from the town that won’t stop taking things from her.

“Raven!”

Of course Murphy is the one to chase after her. Of course. She laughs bitterly, tears running down her face and keeps running against the wind.

“Raven!” He’s faster than she remembers. “Raven, wait!”

Something about his voice makes her stop. A voice that blends painful memories with Christmas lights, old romance with new comfort. She freezes in place and waits.

“Raven?” His hand brushes her shoulder, just faintly. She can barely feel it, already growing numb under her thin shirt. “What happened?”

She sniffs sharply. “Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing.”

“I need to go.”

“Hey…” He grasps her elbow softly and turns her around so they’re face to face. The tear tracks down her face already feel like ice. Murphy looks at her, all concern in his gentle eyes as snow softly begins to swirl around them.

“If you need to go, I can give you a ride,” he finally says.

She laughs. “Why are you always so nice?”

He makes a face. “I’m not nice. Ask anyone.”

“Then why are you always so nice to me?” She intends it to come out lightly, but another sob is threatening to sneak out and so the words come out more than a little rocky.

Murphy’s lips part slightly, brow furrowed in thought. Slowly, his hands come up to rest against the outside of her arms. When he breathes, Raven feels like they’re breathing together, bodies in sync.

Something clears in his face. A decision made. “You know why.”

Raven shivers at the way he says it. With absolute certainty. His palms are warm and inviting against her cold arms.

“I’m afraid,” she whispers.

He blinks. A hint of a smile curls at the edge of his lips. “Don’t be. You can come home whenever you’re ready.”

A cold, clean bed, always ready for her. A hidden bottle of wine. Sinclair’s soothing voice over the phone.

And now, Murphy’s hands pressed against her arms. Were they always standing so close together? She turns her head slightly and feels the tickle of snowflakes against her nose.

Murphy looks up at the sky slightly. “Hey! The first snow!”

When he tilts his head down, there are glistening flakes caught on the edges of his hair. Shining like hidden stars.

Raven grabs his shirt just under the collar and yanks him forward into a kiss. 

He makes a surprised sound of approval and then, as she shows no signs of letting go, he takes over, arms sliding around to cradle her back, pulling her impossibly close. He’s warm and sweet and tastes like, dare she admit it, home.

When he pulls away and brushes his thumb delicately along her jawline, she hums gently and tightens her grip on his shirt, keeping him close.

“Merry Christmas, Murphy.”

He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together ever so softly. Breath warm against her lips.

“Merry Christmas, Raven.”   
  


  
  



End file.
